The man chuckled nervously, glancing away. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“Strange,” Emrys said. “How often men say that before they’re buried?”
I touched his arm. “Emrys.”
The lights went out, drawing a satisfying gasp from the group of drunk men.
“I wouldn’t provoke the Ravenborn if I were you,” an amused voice said. The room was lit again as suddenly as it darkened.
Maerya stood in the doorway. Her robes were layered in ochre and indigo, beads clinking when she stepped in. Her skin glowed bronze in the lamplight, her eyes rimmed in black kohl, unblinking. She looked like a vision from another time.
The temperature dropped when she entered.
“I’ve seen your kind before,” she said, voice cutting through the smoke. “Grave robbers. Fools messing with forces beyond their grasp.”
The man scoffed. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“Keeper of the Forgotten,” she said. “Daughter of tombs sealed before your country had a name. I speak to the dead, and sometimes they answer.”
The man stood, puffing himself up. His friends pulled him back into his chair. “Leave her alone. She’s mad.”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’m the only sane one here.”
She reached into the folds of her robe, pulled out a small clay figurine, and set it on his table.
“The last man who stole from the Chamber of Breath wore this on a cord around his neck. Found it beside what was left of him.”
The drunk man paled. “Is this some sort of threat?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “No. A warning. Leave the dead in peace—or I’ll let them finish what they started.”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came. His lips moved helplessly.
Maerya walked past the men who were quickly leaving the Viceroy’s Seat.
“Well, Ravenborn,” she said tiredly, “that was not exactly keeping your head down, right?” A small ivory pipe materialized in her hand, and she stuffed it with dry herbs.
“What about them?” I asked, pointing at the last of the men, who tossed a coin at the serving boy.
Maerya shrugged, puffing out a cloud of stinging smoke. “Oh, they’ll be dead within a month. They broke the wrong sigils, messed with the wrong dead.”
Chills ran down my spine. The thought that I’d walk those corridors soon, when one wrong step meant certain death, made me down my gin in one go.
“Anything suspicious outside?” Emrys asked, pouring us more.
“Nothing in the skies. Nothing on the roads. No Hollowborn. No sign of Cagliostro. But I feel it in my bones. The winds are changing. The snake is uncoiling. Something is coming.”
The man in the sand-colored suit still lingered at the doorframe. When our eyes met, he pulled his hat lower and disappeared into the night. Something flashed at his wrist. My blood froze as I recognized it. His golden cufflink bore a symbol that haunted my nightmares: a snake whose tail was a string of human vertebrae curled around a skull.
“They’re here,” I said.
Calmly, Maerya finished her drink and pushed herself up. “You better get the back door. I’ll take care of those little snakes,” she said with a morbid grin.
Daphne
The Bathhouse
The back door of The Viceroy’s Seat led to a sinister alley. A cat watched us slip into the maze of narrow streets, which Emrys navigated with ease. We walked in the starlight, the sounds of the city fading behind us. Soon, there was only the distant barking of dogs, the crickets, and our hurried steps over the ancient cobblestones. I walked close to Emrys, sensing his warmth.
